


Under The Table

by JuxtaposedNova



Category: Open Heart (Visual Novels)
Genre: Anger, Bars and Pubs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Character Analysis, F/M, Heartache, Hurt No Comfort, Medicine, Mentor/Protégé, Open Heart fanfiction, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Wishful Thinking, no beta we die like spartans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuxtaposedNova/pseuds/JuxtaposedNova
Summary: Calypso drowns her sorrows in alcohol after the events of Miami, marvelling at the depth of the affection she holds for Ethan - telling herself that the alchemy that circled them was unavoidable.
Relationships: Ethan Ramsey/Main Character (Open Heart), Ethan Ramsey/Original Female Character(s)





	Under The Table

**Author's Note:**

> It already started, I tried to stop it but I already know. You are something I should do without, but I won't. I'm under the table, just keep wishing I'll come out but I don't.
> 
> If you like the story, feel free to leave kudos or a comment.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

The bitter and harsh taste of sorrow travelled down her throat, burning down the knot that smothered her as she attempted to breathe consciously to usurp control of her emotions with the will of her cognition alone.

Like a fog surrounding her, the soft hum of the conversations from the nearby tables around her provided enough din for her to ignore the lyrics of the love song playing in the background. It mocked her, reflecting back at her that which she desired to suffocate by turning her bloodstream into alcohol.

She sat at the bar, lackadaisically studying the nautical decorations on the walls of the bar. The lamp above her head flickered for a second and she tilted her head slightly to look at it as she took another swing of the Buckfast she had ordered. Refined living and palette aside, she needed something stronger than what the Yankees offered – something that brought her comfort with the pungent and acerbic taste of home.

“Hey, there.” A voice brought her attention to the man who was currently sliding into the barstool next to hers, pocketing his wedding band in what he thought was a subtle manner.

With another swing of her drink, she turned to look at him.

A handsome face greeted her. And yet, as she allowed herself to marvel at the beauty of this cuckquean-maker, she couldn’t help but to think that his eyes were too green, his hair too light and his height not tall enough for her. His built was far too muscular, too rough.

“Hello.” She addressed him finally.

Her reciprocation was all the acquiescence he needed to finally turn his body to face hers. She knew this to be wrong, but still she mimicked him – welcoming the opportunity to wash away the hypnotizing pair of ocean eyes that plagued her head like an illness.

“You look sad.” He pointed out the obvious, offering his hand to her so she could shake it. “The name’s Zander.”

“Calypso.” She shook his hand, ensuring her grip would be firm enough to demonstrate her assertiveness and dominance. “A pleasure.”

His eyes travelled up and down her body, lingering on the expanse of the décolleté that displayed the ink on her chest for everyone to see. “Believe me, the pleasure’s all mine.”

She smiled tightly, already regretting welcoming his attention. She didn’t have enough energy to entertain small talk, despite normally being good at it.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” He asked, looking at her choice of drink curiously and gesturing to the bartender that he wanted whatever she was having. “On vacation?”

She lied, straightening her posture, and taking another gulp of her drink. “Yes, I’m visiting a friend. I’ve been here for a couple weeks, it’s quite nice.”

Even she could tell how dry the direction of her speaking was. She would have to turn him down gently as soon as it was socially acceptable. Her mind began conjuring the scenarios that would provide her the outcome she desired.

And as her gaze drifted to the contrast of the tan line around his ring finger, she knew what she’d be using. Infidelity had the ability to bring people face-to-face with the volatile and opposing forces of passion: the lust, the lure, the urgency, the impossibility of love, the relief, the entrapment, the guilt, the inevitable heartbreak, the deliciousness of the sinfulness, the surveillance, the insanity of suspicion, the murderous rage to get even, and the tragic denouement.

It was one of the windows of the heart people rarely confessed to frequenting despite how quotidian it was.

There was in implicit cultural shift in the way people casually viewed relationships. Monogamy used to mean one person for life, and it now meant one person at a time.

“And where is she?” He inquired, thanking the bartender as she handed him the Buckfast bottle. His eyebrows raised as he read the ingredients.

“I wanted to go out on my own tonight.” She offered, raising her own bottle to clink against his. “I guess I’m feeling nostalgic for home.”

“To home.” He added, as the glass connected with a soft ringing sound.

“To home.” She echoed.

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her when he coughed as soon as he tasted the strong drink. It wasn’t for the faint of heart. Few could tolerate the caffeinated fortified red wine. It scorched all the way down, and the taste was awful. But it was strong, and it got the job done.

“And what brings you here?” Calypso asked, attention regained.

“You know, just out with the boys.” He drawled, pointing at a group of men behind them. “We’re out for a night of fun.”

“The night must be awfully dull if you decided to trade their company for mine.” She quipped, smiling bitterly.

Chuckling, he shook his head. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take up too much of your time. I’m happily married.”

At this, she raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in interest. “Oh?”

“They dared me to come talk to you and get your number for my buddy.” He pointed with his index finger at a big man with tattoos. “He’s pretty shy. He got divorced recently so he’s still getting back in the game.”

Her father was a businessman, a man of logic with a soft spot for the people he loved and a charismatic aura. She had grown up in his world, learning the strings behind the one thing that motivated the world: money.

In consumer society, novelty was key. The obsoleteness of objects was programmed in advance so that it ensured the desire to replace them. Love and couples were no exception to such trend. They lived in a culture that continually lured them with the promise of something better, younger, perkier, more adventurous.

Hence, people no longer divorced because they were unhappy, but because they could be _happier_. 

“Then why take off your ring?” She joshed, finishing her drink.

“You noticed?” A pink blush adorned his cheeks as he scratched the back of his neck. “I knew you wouldn’t give it to me if you knew I was married.”

For the first time that night, she smiled genuinely.

“You assumed correctly.” She stated, shaking her head in amusement. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to tell your mate I’m taken.”

Her right hand was concealed from his view, so she took the opportunity to dexterously move the ring she had on her middle finger to the ring finger without him noticing.

“Married?” He asked with interest.

“Engaged.” She lied, lifting her hand for him to see the diamond ring on her finger.

A grin drew itself on his handsome face. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” Faux display of joy coming to etch itself onto her burgundy lips, she signalled the bartender to get her another bottle.

“A pity.” He teased good-naturedly. “I bet you would’ve gotten along with him.”

“Perhaps.” She conceded. “But I’m afraid destiny has deemed us ineligible. And trust me, I’m more than he can handle unless he’s looking to get chained to the bed for a week and whipped into submission.”

He laughed, throwing his head back.

“I’ll make sure to tell him that.” Zander said, before rising from the barstool he had claimed. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your drink, Calypso. I hope you enjoy the rest of your vacation.”

With a wave, he returned to his group and she was left alone with her thoughts once again.

Her desire for others had evaporated, vanquished by the power of the singular attraction she held for the man who had kissed her on a balcony only to leave her high and dry. It was the grand ambition of love, the lure of the forbidden.

However, the thirst for life triggered in the encounter she had shared with Ethan had toppled her with an irresistible force. It had neither been planned nor sought. The unexpected boost of the desire he had awakened had galvanized her beyond the mundane, abruptly breaking the rhythm and routine of the quotidian.

And sexual alchemy had been the key in her desire for him, the erotic fission had been such that the kiss she had only imagined giving him before their lips connected, had been as powerful and as enchanting of hours of actual lovemaking.

At the very structure of the forbidden lust that connected them, was the fact that they couldn’t have each other. It kept them wanting. The incompleteness, the ambiguity, kept them wanting that which they could not have.

Ethan made her dream of lives that could not be hers.

The bartender placed another bottle of caffeinated wine before her and she immediately downed half of it – reaching for her phone and calling an Uber.

That night, she had sat beside him on the balcony with a half-drunk bottle of wine between them. The Atlantic had laid before them, glittering in the moonlight and reflecting in his eyes as he eclipsed them all.

She had told him that the higher she aspired, the more she stood to lose. Unsaid were the losses she feared the most. Her friends, her career, herself, her…dynamic with him. He had claimed to understand as they stood, leaning against the railing together with the taste of salt caressing their skin.

Then his expression had grown sad, with hope barely softening his eyes as he looked down at her, their faces merely inches apart.

_“…and I’m beginning to realize…” He leaned closer, his hand hanging in the air close to hers. “There are some things that are worth any risk.”_

She had tried not to let the attraction she felt for him evolve into something more. She had begged her treacherous heart not to hope for what would only end in heartbreak if he didn’t feel the same way.

But she had known in the lingering looks he gave her. In the way he spoke to her when there was no one around but them. In the precious vulnerability he displayed to her because there was no one else he’d rather be sharing his burden with.

Reading into his speech, into his body movement, into him – understanding that which her heart knew but her brain refused to agree with.

Yet the need and the desire to know had been overwhelming. As alluring and beguiling as a woman whose entire life had been dedicated to court and be courted. As fascinating as a man who could speak effortlessly about the divinity etched into the world, the true divinity concealed within the emotions they so eagerly feared. As evil as those who dedicated to gamble regarding the emotions of another simply to enjoy the subterfuge of the schadenfreude they created.

Her entire life, she had lingered in the idiosyncrasy of games and distractions – thinking that she knew how to fuck something innocent without leaving her fingerprints embedded into the skin she caressed. Skin, much to her surprise, turned out to be like sand. No matter how much she tried to avoid leaving any trace of her touch, it captured it without any hesitance. Almost as if it wished to be tarnished. A blank canvas juxtaposed with a volatile palette. 

The greatest of jokes to someone who claimed not to love but loved so willingly and powerfully.

A great portion of life was spent defining identities, the core beliefs that drove them to do the things they did. Part of her couldn’t help but to think that, some of Ethan’s beliefs had intertwined so deep into his mind that somewhere along the way, instead of bending them, he had internalized them.

And Ethan had a way of seeing the world – both the fucked up and the good – that allowed him to design what was to come and what he could make out of it. A sense of humour so dark and unrivalled by anything but her own that she couldn’t help but to think he had been handcrafted by what mythology claimed was the origin of their story as a species. Intelligence, both emotional and logical, that allowed them to delve deep into conversations that held meaning – regardless of their goal.

When they kissed, when his arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her so close she almost believed he never wanted to let go of her, she had realized one thing.

With him, she had experienced for the first time in romance what it felt like not to be needed – but to be wanted.

There was a novelty to everything he did, to everything he said. Novelty wasn’t about new positions; it wasn’t a repertoire of techniques. It was the parts of himself that he brought out, that were seen.

And despite the fact that they hadn’t gone beyond kissing in the name of professionality, she had known that sex with him wouldn’t be something to be done, but a place to go. A place where she’d enter inside of herself with him. It was a language, not just a behaviour.

With him, she experienced anticipation, the mortar to desire. The ability to imagine as if it’s happening, to experience as if it’s happening while nothing is really happening. It was the ability to stay connected to herself in his presence.

Love carried the signature of the author of lost causes. It was a profound act of faith that smelled like a lie. It was the lost war between sex and laughter, the arrogance of clinging to the impossible. The truest test of time.

She didn’t doubt that time couldn’t wither the sensual touch and volcanic force in his eyes – because he was the perfect amalgam between experience and youth. His talent laid in carefully managing the art of love for fear of destroying it.

_“I shouldn’t have let this happen.” He had uttered mournfully, his fists tightening as he watched her slip the sleeves of her dress down her shoulders. “And it can’t happen again.”_

She didn’t want to know the price she’d pay for dreaming of him. The price she was paying for desiring him and what he could offer.

Theirs was a love and a story that hinged on true possibility – what they could offer each other was infinite potential. Reality wouldn’t stand a chance against that kind of promise unless they granted it the freedom to do so. They wanted each other in a way that felt both inexplicable and inevitable. They represented a singular perfection to each other, they had to because they contained none of the trappings of a real relationship: the awkward, the beautiful, the sweet, the ordinary, the holding of hands in public and the stolen kisses, the quiet walks, the teasing of friends.

They were perfect in part because they were an escape, they always seemed to offer more.

A ping from her phone brought her back to reality.

Drinking what remained of the Buckfast, she repressed the need to cry. She’d do it at home, in the safety of her covers and with Sienna’s arms around her while she murmured in her ear everything would be fine. Because she didn’t want to deal with the pain alone.

Without another thought, she pulled her wallet out and put the required amount underneath her empty bottle – so as to keep the bills in place. Gesturing at a bartender, she let him know she had paid for her drinks and exited the bar.

The Uber was parked in front of her, and the driver rolled down her window. “Calypso?”

“That’s me.” She smiled, climbing into the passenger seat and pocketing her phone.

Ethan could’ve saturated the entirety of her existence and, still, it would’ve never been enough. She would’ve still begged him for more.

The city lights blurred as she made her way back home, the sound of a soft ballad digging deep into her. She closed the window of the car when she felt a few drops of water hit the skin of her cheeks.

Funny how it didn’t rain anywhere else.

**Author's Note:**

> If you wish to read my stories before I post them here, find me on Tumblr:
> 
> https://droppedmydamncroissant.tumblr.com/
> 
> I'll be happy to add you to my tag list.


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